‘One of the grand gentlemen over from Rooklands come to court Miss Rosa,’ she thought in the innocence of her heart, as she turned off the road to take a short cut across the country to Mavis Farm. Meanwhile the couple she alluded to were making their way slowly towards Corston; she, reining in her horse to the pace of a tortoise, whilst he walked by the side with his hand upon the crutch of her saddle.
‘Could you doubt for a moment whether I should come?’ said Frederick Darley in answer to Rosa’s question. ‘Wouldn’t I go twenty—fifty miles, for the pleasure of a dance with you?’
‘You’re such an awful flatterer,’ she replied, bridling under the compliment; ‘but don’t make too sure of a dance with me, for papa and my brothers will be there, and they are so horribly particular about me.’
‘And not particularly fond of me—I know it, Miss Murray—but I care nothing at all about it so long as—as—’
‘As what?’
‘As you are.’
‘Oh, Mr Darley! how can you talk such nonsense?’
‘It’s not nonsense! it’s sober sense—come, Rosa, tell me the truth. Are you playing with me, or not?’
‘What do you mean by “playing”?’
‘You know. Are you in earnest or in jest? In fact—do you love me better than you love your father and your brothers?’